You Need a Hobby
by Le Penguin
Summary: (Being sad isn't a hobby.) Mikleo has been stuck in a rut for too long, and Lailah resorts to drastic measures to pull him out of his funk.


The world continued turning without Sorey, somehow. The malevolence lightened with each passing day, the political climate cleared, the fields and cities flourished, and humanity's wondering eyes had begun to open to the seraphs that had lived amongst them for so long. It was clear that Sorey was hard at work, tireless and determined, dreaming up a better and better world no matter how many decades ticked by.

Bitterly, Mikleo thought he could stand to learn from his example. He tried to travel, to see the world that Sorey could not (but he would, he would, he would awaken and they would). But, empty and ancient halls and towers felt all the more barren and hollow without a fiercely intelligent mind to debate with upon the finer points of archaeological findings, and the fiercely kind voice he knew nearly as well as his own. Sorey would expect him to travel. Sorey would expect him to fulfill their dream when he could not. Sorey would expect him to write…he would be so disappointed when he woke to find that the second edition of the Celestial Record had been put on indefinite hiatus because its editor couldn't muster up the energy and interest to do anything other than trace the path between Elysia and Camlann, Camlann to Elysia, over and over, again and again, collapsing into bed and falling into fitful sleep.

(The bed they'd shared for eighteen years, the bed where they'd shared their second, third, three-hundredth kiss, the bed where one night after kiss number three-hundred-one Mikleo had taken Sorey's hand from where it trembled on Mikleo's hip, laced their fingers together, slipped his other hand inside Sorey's nightclothes, and…)

Mikleo woke from that restless dream to pounding on his door. He groaned and rolled out of bed, paying little mind to the tangled rat's nest on his head – he always kept it styled and trimmed when Sorey's messy mop was around to serve as a cautionary tale, but it just didn't seem important now, with his duties to tend to Sorey's resting place, and his duties to Elysia, now that Gramps was…gone too, and…

Mikleo cracked open the door just an inch to peer out. In the dreadfully early morning light, he could see that his visitor was Lailah (this could be tolerated – but perhaps at a better hour of the morning). As his vision swam back into focus from his haze of sleep, he could see that Lailah was barely fighting back tears, and was dragging behind her a large, lacquered chest. Concerned, Mikleo opened the door further.

"Lailah, wh-"

"THIS IS AN INTERVENTION FROM THE FASHION POLICE!" Lailah wailed, barreling past Mikleo and dragging the massive heavy chest behind her with a strength that seemed to come from deep within. "I CAN'T BEAR TO SEE YOU LIKE THIS, LOOKING LIKE THAT, DRESSING LIKE THAT-"

Baffled, and more than a little self-conscious, Mikleo looked down at himself. True, he had grown more accustomed to plain, unadorned travel tunics over his other clothes…and perhaps he slept in his travel clothes more often than he should. After the long walk between Elysia and Camlann, he just didn't have the energy to change…and his old jacket with its bodice was hard to get into each morning, after all. (And there was no Sorey to catch giving hungry stares at Mikleo's hips, no Sorey to wrap his big warm hands around the smallest point of his waist to drag him so close and tight so he could barely breathe-)

Lailah seized him by the cheeks, tears streaming down her face. Her eye makeup remained as pure as her name. She breathed deeply, staring with deep and intense empathy into Mikleo's eyes.

"I know," she whispered urgently. She forced Mikleo into a big warm hug, hushing him with soft noises when he tried to protest. " _I know_. Lailah will help. I won't have him seeing you like this. I've brought _help._ Nothing but the best for those in such desperate need."

A part of Mikleo felt so deeply offended. He took _excellent_ care of his appearance – back when they were all travelling together, he was second only to Lailah herself in terms of prep time every morning at inns – it's true that maybe things had been _hectic_ these past few decades, but –

"Oof. Lailah, dahlingk, ven you said zis would be vork, I should perhaps not have underestimated."

Mikleo narrowed his eyes and looked around. Then looked down.

Lailah smiled, dabbing at her eyes with a hankie. "Mikleo, meet Cootoor. She's the foremost normin fashion expert, and specializes in extreme makeovers."

Mikleo bristled. "Excuse me!? I don't need—"

Cootoor peered over her sunglasses, and tsked as she began to circle Mikleo, slowly and deliberately. She hmmed thoughtfully.

"…yes, yes, zere iz still hope here. Lailah, you called me here not a moment too soon. Ve vill begin. Prep ze patient for ze surgery now."

"Surgery? Wha-"

Lailah hit Mikleo with a paralyzing spell, eyes brimming with more tears. As Mikleo collapsed to his knees, Lailah grabbed him under his arms, gently guiding him to the ground. In her right hand, she brandished scissors; her left, an exfoliating cloth.

"It'll all be over soon," she whispered. "Remember: there is hope."

Mikleo needed to hire a normin himself one of these days. Preferably one specializing in bouncing uninvited guests.

Mikleo awoke tied to a chair, and with mud caked on his face. His head felt lighter – moving it from side to side proved that he had been subject to a haircut; his (much neater, he had to admit) hair now falling in a loose braid between his shoulder blades. He found that his voice was still weak from the paralyzing spell, and as such, he could not tell Lailah and Cootoor exactly where they could stick their makeover. He made a brief, abortive struggle to free himself. Cootoor regarded him briefly, then glanced at her elegant wristwatch.

"Lailah. Ze mud treatment iz complete. Wash ze patient."

Lailah was bent over a sewing machine, her mouth full of pins. Her foot continued to work the pedal, her mind entirely engrossed in her vision. Cootoor sighed and dabbed her paws on a hand towel.

"You seraphim. Always with your hoisting and foisting. It iz to be expected – only ze work of a normin iz without flaw."

Cootoor dunked a washcloth into a bowl of water, and began to wipe Mikleo's face clean of the mud treatment. Mikleo had half a mind to summon a torrential rainstorm and wash the whole house down the Elysian mountainside, and then they would get to all enjoy a little mud treatment –

Cootoor made a small, interested noise as she inspected Mikleo's skin after the mud was washed away.

"…yes, yes, lovely bone structure. Excellent skin texture. Truly your mother's son."

Mikleo's eyes went wide. He struggled to find his voice through the remnants of the spell. "My mother's…what…?"

Cootoor gave a tragic sigh, and pulled a tiny silk handkerchief out of her smartly-tailored suit. "A fashion icon for ze ages. An inspiration, such was her name. My dear Muse! Ve could have made such beautiful musics together!"

Cootoor blew her nose loudly into her monogrammed handkerchief and dissolved into tears. Lailah blinked, jolted from her sewing hypnosis by the sudden loud noise. She shifted the pins in her mouth so she could speak.

"Oh dear. Did Cootoor start thinking about that hideous floral print that's gotten popular again?" Lailah asked, concerned.

Mikleo watched Cootoor sprawl tragically onto the floor in an exaggerated swoon. It was really very awkward to watch, though Mikleo would have tried to comfort her had he not been otherwise lashed to a chair. He worked his jaw and tongue and found them lighter than before.

"She…was talking about my mother…" he said, slow and quiet.

Lailah's foot slid from the pedal. Her eyes went soft.

"…Cootoor was so enchanted by Muse. The moment she set her eyes on her, really. Your unc…the previous shepherd so badly wanted to see her after two years of travel, and she rushed out to greet us in this absolutely lovely dress with handmade petticoats and these cute little kicky pumps-"

" _Ze accessorizing!_ " Cootoor howled, grasping futilely at the ceiling with a shaking paw. "No human or seraph before or since could hold ze candle to her brilliant eye for ze accessorizing! Ze most tattered of peasant clothes could be elevated to a _statement_ with her skills!"

Mikleo had always wanted to know more about his mother, but more about her personality, and less about her ability to pick out a nice necklace. Cootoor lunged from her swooning and moved with unnatural speed to barrel upward and squish Mikleo's cheeks between her paws.

"From ze moment I saw you, I knew this: here ve have a sparkling diamond in ze rough. A diamond with pedigree like no other! A diamond zat has put itself in ze rough because of ze amour tragique! A diamond zat has let itself get so rough zat we, expert jewelers, must pick and peck and drill at to uncover ze beauty zat lies neglected and wilting underneath ze thousands of layers of dirt!"

Mikleo bristled. "Who was it that smeared mud on my face!?"

Cootoor hushed him with a paw to his mouth. "Zat sassy personality iz part of your charm, yes, this I know. It iz but a façade to hide ze hurt inside zat you will never live up to your mother's fashion legacy-"

"Which I didn't even know she had until five minutes ago," Mikleo added. Cootoor was absolutely not listening.

"—but you mustn't fall into despair! For in zat path lies dragons. And it iz simply not feasible to style a dragon, mon petit. Ve have tried so desperately. Lailah?"

Lailah hmmed noncommittally, her focus back on her sewing. Cootoor nodded sagely.

"Lailah iz silent with ze pain of ze memory. Ze memory of our dear Eizen shredding the cutting-edge robes ve sewed for him with his many teeths."

"Tragic," Mikleo said, flatly.

"Indeed yes. Mon petit, you must work your sass as a weapon in ze cutthroat world of fashion – and when, yes, when, your amour returns from ze land of ze sleep, you will approach him in ze silken whisper of a glittering ballgown and wield ze sass as a knife, cutting through his defense, and zen you will sheathe ze sass and wield ze dual blades of warmth and gentle kisses."

Cootoor placed a paw onto her heart, and nodded.

"Zis is the path of the ancient tsundere, and it iz you to carry on ze legacy. Lailah! Have you finished with the diamond's new wardrobe?"

Lailah was finished with something, and she was trying it on herself in the mirror. She turned around to inspect the back, and blinked at Cootoor's question.

"Oh? I've been making my spring wardrobe. I think a cherry blossom palette is timeless, don't you?"

Cootoor made a thoughtful noise, and hopped off Mikleo to circle Lailah. Mikleo was glad to no longer the object of Cootoor's interest, but wished someone would at least untie him.

The good news was that Lailah and Cootoor finally got tired of talking about their upcoming spring collection and graciously took the time to untie Mikleo. (And it only took Mikleo clearing his throat six times, loudly, to get them to belatedly remember his existence.) Lailah gently untied the knots, then gently, firmly, very firmly, extremely firmly, marched him over to her sewing corner. Which was now more like a sewing corner-and-a-half. That she'd set up in his house.

Cootoor was back to circling Mikleo, sizing him up as a wolf would a fresh steak.

"I look at zis, and I think plaid. "

Cootoor gestured at Mikleo as if to demonstrate what "zis" was. The temperature in the room suddenly dropped several degrees, and spiraled ever lower. Ice began to bloom on the walls, and the very air seemed to turn sharp as glass. Through her shivering, Lailah managed to breathe a glow of warmth into her hands. Cootoor sneezed and flapped her paws irritably.

"Mon dieu, plaid iz off ze table!"

Mikleo allowed warmth to return to the world. Cootoor adjusted her sunglasses, trying to draw attention from the fond smile tugging at the side of her mouth.

"Such a temper! But ze diva behavior suits ze high-powered realm of fashion."

The full-length mirrors leaning against the wall were nearly completely obscured by the parchment tacked to them; sketch after sketch of Lailah and Cootoor's creations. Cootoor snatched up a blank sheet and a quill, handing both to Mikleo.

"With ze pedigree you possess, I think it iz not ze bad plan to involve your mind in ze creative process. So: what do you want to say to ze world wiz your new look?"

Mikleo stared at the blank page, quill clutched in his hand. This creative block, at least, was a familiar feeling. Since Sorey left, trying to write was like trying to squeeze blood from a stone. The ideas were there, just waiting to be committed to paper: the soaring peaks of Rayfalke, the first sight of the ocean from Camelot Bridge, the battlefield where allegiances were set aside and a dragon was felled. If he didn't tell the world about their journey, the world would never know about them, would never know what Sorey had done for a cause he loved so dearly. But the moment Mikleo tried to commit the ideas to paper, the words slipped through his fingers like water.

Sorey had once described to him how it felt to be hungry, to be thirsty, and then, it was something that Mikleo could not comprehend. Now, he understood the gnawing need and emptiness that subsumed thought, drowned out creativity, threatened to consume him whole. To ask Mikleo to write, to create, to explore: it was like asking a starving man to compose a symphony.

How was he to write when his heart was empty?

Cootoor slapped his forehead repeatedly with a ruler, scowling.

"You vill stop ze mooning and ze swooning while zere iz ze creating to be done!"

Cootoor smacked the ruler against the inside of her own paw. She sized up Mikleo, and spoke again, softer this time.

"It iz clear: your muse iz absent, yes? As is mine."

Lailah's cheeks puffed out, her eyes bright and straining with the urge to point out the play on words. Well. If Lailah was determined enough to keep her puns in check, surely Mikleo could play along a bit longer.

Cootoor produced a small jewelry box from her travel case, and pressed it into Mikleo's hands. Curiously, Mikleo snapped the case open. The rainbow glow of the crystal's light was enough to announce its contents: an iris gem was nestled into the velvet casing.

"A treasured memory of your mother, and the last beacon of my muse," Cootoor said. "Would you like to see it?"

Mikleo's stomach twisted at the thought. Hesitantly, he touched the gem with his fingertips.

" _MUUUUUUUUUSE!" Cootoor trilled, pounding at the door rapid-fire with powerful, tiny fists. "Ma chère! Ze latest shipment of silks from Lastonbell iz to die for! Ve must sample zem zis instant!"_

 _The door creaked open a hair._

" _Cootoor, please, this isn't a good time-" came Muse's voice._

 _Cootoor slithered through the tiny crack as if no bones existed in her body. She tilted her head at the body trying to hide itself under the sheets on the bed. Cootoor did not do well with secrets, nor with distractions, especially with next season's collection on the line. She yanked the sheets off the bed, revealing a naked Selene. Selene shrieked and hid what she could behind a hastily-grabbed pillow._

 _Cootoor tilted her head to the side quizzically. "Oh, hello, Selene dear. A sleepover, at your ages? One must hold onto the innocent joys of youth, zis iz true."_

 _Cootoor regarded Muse for a moment, then frowned and poked at her midsection under her flimsy nightie. "Have you gained a few inches, darling?"_

"Was that supposed to help?" Mikleo asked, voice flat.

Cootoor slapped his head with the ruler again. "Such insolence. Zat was your glorious first appearance on film, I vill have you know. Your sudden addition to my muse's divine form forced me to scrap ze entire season's collection. But from ze ashes came ze beautiful phoenix: a maternity collection like none had ever seen before, and like none will ever see since. Ze fires of tragedy give birth to ze fires of creation. Zis gem serves as ze reminder of zis universal truth."

Cootoor paused a moment, thoughtfully, then began to dig through her travel case again.

"I do think zat I still have ze sketches of the infant collection I was to present to her before ze literal fires of tragedy occurred. Perhaps I will adapt zem to your current measurements…"

Mikleo hastily began to scribble nonsense on his blank parchment. "Uh, hark and forsooth, inspiration has hit! Don't interrupt me or I'll lose the spark!"

Cootoor clapped her paws together delightedly, and quietly shooed herself and Lailah to the sewing corner to give Mikleo privacy.

Perhaps, just perhaps, Cootoor was onto something. Mikleo disagreed with her on many points – on invading his home, on tying him to a chair, on smearing mud on his face, on showing him suggestive videos of his mother, on trying to dress him in plaid – but she was trying to speak to him from one creative mind to another. She too had lost someone dear to her, and yet, she still made art. She still broke into people's homes to make them over against their will.

She still lived, like his mother would have wanted her to. Like Sorey would want him to.

And Sorey would be so disappointed to not have something new to read when he awoke.

"You know, Cootoor," Lailah whispered, too loud to truly think Mikleo couldn't hear her. "I heard there was a new underground acropolis unearthed not too far from the Pendrago region. Surely an explorer wanting to visit such a cosmopolitan city needs to be dressed to the nines."

Cootoor nodded thoughtfully. "Yes. Cutting an elegant figure, with six capes coming out of his back. Maybe more."

Mikleo's fingers began to itch at the familiar feeling of the quill in his hand.


End file.
